


amidst the dying of the leaves

by deepandlovelydark



Series: Second Chances [7]
Category: MacGyver (TV 1985), Vinegar Hill
Genre: 1970s, Queer Themes, Slice of Life, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 14:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15909978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepandlovelydark/pseuds/deepandlovelydark
Summary: conversation in a taxi cab, halfway between the Twin Cities and Duluth.upon endings, unspoken sweetness, and quiet desperation





	amidst the dying of the leaves

**Author's Note:**

> From the POV of the protagonist of "Vinegar Hill"- which I hadn't read at the time I started Second Chances, honest. 
> 
> Set 1973 best as I can reckon it, post-canon, major spoilers.

"How many Ellens are there in the world, anyhow?" her taxi driver asks. "You're the third one I've had in my cab today."

"A good many, I suppose," she says. Wincing at her prim, schoolmarmish tone ( _Ellen, that's exactly what you are_ ). 

"Though Mac's wife doesn't exactly count, cos she was named after her godmother, so maybe that's only two and a half, really- am I annoying you?" he inquires. "Mac's always telling me I come on too strong."

That one she can believe. He's young, brashly self-confident, keeps whipping a hand off the wheel to further punctuate his remarks. For a moment she wishes she'd taken the back seat. If her husband was here, the deferment would have been automatic, easy, unthought. 

"It's fine," she says. "I'm just worried- "

"About the car? Don't be. Just a little fender bender- Mac'll get it sorted out in no time, believe me. He's a handy guy in a crisis."

She doesn't know what she's doing here, in this subdued Minnesota town. Something between a favour and a bullying order, from her friend Barb.  _Birthday weekend, Ellen, give yourself a break. Go try something you'd never have tried before, I'll take charge of the kids. Go out boating on Lake Michigan or something, we'll have fun._

So she'd tried it, woken up early and driven aimlessly westward, northward, forward; and all she has to show for it is a wasted day and a broken car. Harsh, familiar tendrils of guilt curl about her throat. 

"So what brings you to Mission City, anyway? Come to visit one of the inmates?"

It's uncanny, how the blur of houses suddenly snaps into focus, acquiring texture and connotations. She's read about this place in the papers, upset yet fascinated by the scandals, like a rabbit in headlights. Mistreatment, starvation, neglect. "I thought the prison was closing down."

He shrugs. "Next week. Half the town still doesn't believe it- they're holding a prayer vigil at the church later. Everyone's scared stiff what's going to happen to us, once the money stops flowing in. I'm thinking I might be better getting out- obviously, I can take the business with me."

"I did. I left my husband."

She says it suddenly, without forethought; and it frightens her.  _Am I going to keep acting like this, now? Unpredictable even to myself? That'll certainly add up in cars._

"Good for you."

"I'm not sure. I mean, it's better than it was-" (and how simply the confession glides out of her mouth, delicately thin and offensive as it is). "But now I have two children to worry about, and nobody to help me. It's exactly as hard as I thought it'd be, and why I hoped it'd be any easier, I can't imagine."

"Nobody's ever completely alone," the taxi driver says. "You got any friends of your own? See if you can't lean on them a little, they might surprise you. God knows it's the only reason I've managed this long up here-" and he lets the o drawl slowly outwards, a thickly Southern accent peeking out from the anonymity. "Though of course, it cuts both ways. I might end up having to stay after all, just to look after a couple of 'em. Mac, for instance. Great with machines, but totally hopeless when it comes to people. If he ever had to go panhandling, the only reason he'd get any money is because people just felt that doggone sorry for him."

"I think that's usually how it works," she says, gravely enough. 

He laughs. She laughs harder. 

"I really am sorry about your friend's car, though. It looked to be in much worse shape than mine."

"Aw, don't be. Believe me, Mac's used to bad luck. And here's the gas station- do you need any change for the phone?"

Right. Of course: the mooted phone call to her husband, the plea for help.  _Come and find me, take me home. Forgive me my trespasses. Make me promise I'll never do it again._

"Never mind," Ellen says. "I'd rather see this cafe you were talking about. Get a cup of coffee, meet my namesake."

"Good choice."

A small one, she wants to say, nothing that she or he or anybody else will even remember tomorrow. But maybe that's enough. A series of small, quiet decisions, each one fragile and yet cumulatively sufficient for a day, a year, a life. Perhaps she'll never be able to forgive herself, for leaving someone who needed her; and perhaps she can go on living quite regardless.

"And if this husband of yours shows up, we'll show him the door right off- what's his name?"

"James."

What prompted his shamed, helpless giggling this time, she can't fathom; and she doesn't ask. 

It'll be more fun to imagine. 


End file.
